


Morphine Dreams

by HorriblyStupid



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: But make it Marelene fluff, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Non-Graphic Violence, Pierre is not great, That one bit where he throws a table at Helene, after the duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorriblyStupid/pseuds/HorriblyStupid
Summary: After the duel, things between Pierre and Helene go from bad to worse. Marya is there to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Marya Dmitryevna Akhrosimova/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Morphine Dreams

Morphine Dreams

I

“Must you always make such a fool of yourself?”

Pierre was pacing the room, hands still shaking. All he could think about was the weight of the gun, and how easy it had been to pull the trigger. 

“I can only imagine what Anna Pavlovna Scherer will be saying already. You know those people thrive off gossip. This will be like Christmas for them.”

Hélène’s voice was steady and deliberate, with no trace of the panic he had heard early as the shots were fired. He hadn’t expected her to scream when Dolokov had shot him; frankly, he was surprised she hadn’t killed him herself by now. It wasn’t through any love for him, he knew that. Perhaps she had screamed at the thought of what everyone would say, the damage to her reputation if her lover had murdered her husband. 

She certainly hadn’t been expecting Dolokov to miss, more likely hoping the bullet would catch her husband in the heart. In the moment, Pierre had almost been feeling the same way.

“Are you even listening to me? I cannot believe that you would shoot our friend over some petty rumours,” she said, sharply.

This snapped Pierre out of his fog of thoughts. He turned to her, and stared at her through his glasses. He felt as though he was seeing her for the first time, seeing what was underneath all of the beauty and pearls. 

“Our friend? That man is no friend of mine. Or of yours! You may think me a fool but I saw the two of you together, Hélène. You are my wife- what was I supposed to do?” The words came out louder than he had expected, shattering the quiet caution between them. 

If his yelling surprised Hélène, she didn’t show it. She had always been able to match him in his blustering rages, shouting back and still somehow retaining her air of disinterest. She didn’t even look at him, instead fixing her hair using her reflection in the darkness of the frosted window. It was not lost on him that all of that time, from when Dolokov was kissing her to when he was lying in the dirt, not one curl had been out of place.

“There is nothing going on between me and Fedya. Honestly, Pierre, if you wanted me to pay you a bit more attention, stroke your bruised little ego, maybe you should try not being a boring, pathetic drunk. I am not your possession, and I will not be fought over like some little toy.”

Something was rising inside Pierre, bubbling, like a pot of water coming to boil. His throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could barely hear her over the ringing in his head. For once, Hélène was oblivious and continued to talk. 

“All you do is drink and read, and somehow you think that makes you better than everyone else. Don’t you see it? People pity you. They pity me for having to be married to you. And they know that one day, you will drink yourself to death and nobody in Moscow will give a–”

He didn’t let her finish, lunging at her with a shout. She jumped backwards, out of his reach, nearly tripping over her poison-green skirts. For a fleeting second, the ever-present confidence in her eyes was replaced with fear. She suddenly seemed very small next to his great size, more like glass than marble. 

Then she started to laugh. 

Years of anger and resentment came flooding back to Pierre. How many times had she humiliated him? She had taken his name, his home and his happiness and still she continued to ruin his life. He felt sick. 

Later, he would think it was as though his arms acted unbidden as they picked up the marble table-top. It was as if it were another man who brought it down, hard.

He heard his heartbeat in his ears, a scream, a dull thud. Hélène lay at his feet, eyes closed with a halo of blood pooling around her head and Pierre thought it was obscene how beautiful she looked, even then. 

II

Marya was having a good day. Her goddaughter, darling Natasha (and also that other girl), had finally come to stay and with her presence, the house had come back to life. The sound of laughter and singing filled the hallways; there were freshly cut flowers on the table. She felt content, and realised being alone had affected her more than she thought. 

Natasha and Sonya were sitting in the drawing room, whispering and giggling about something or other, while Marya sipped her tea. Every so often, Natasha would speak loudly and they would glance at Marya, as if to make sure she hadn’t overheard. She wondered what they were talking about- no doubt their boys or some other nonsense. She had never been one for gossip. 

She thought back to the opera and the way everyone had gawked at the girls. Something about it annoyed her. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Of course, they had been led by Hélène Bezukhova. 

That dreadful woman, seemingly devoid of shame or humility. She reminded Marya of an ancient goddess. She had an air of power and beauty, but was merciless in her wrath. Everything about her went against Marya’s values; she did not seem to care for anyone but herself and perhaps that awful brother of hers. She certainly did not care for her husband. 

Poor Pierre. Marya had seen him less and less since the wedding, but every time she did, he seemed like a shadow of his former self. While she felt bad for her friend, their last few conversations had been almost unbearable. Where before his bookishness had been endearing and almost charming, now it made him awkward and distant. Maybe it was understandable. Still, she had no patience for someone who felt more time feeling self-pitying about their problems than actually fixing them. 

Her tea had gotten cold. Natasha and Sonya had slipped into contented silence, her goddaughter resting her head on Sonya’s shoulder. She was startled out of her contemplations by a knock at the door.

The footman was pale and wide-eyed, as if he had seen a ghost. He stood at the door but did not speak. When Marya asked, sharply, why he had disturbed them, he flinched.

“Madam, the Count Bezukhov is asking to see you. He appears…”, he trailed off. “Perhaps the young ladies should wait here?”

She nodded, concerned by his strange manner. She told Natasha and Sonya to remain in the drawing room, and quickly made her way to the front hall. 

There in the darkness stood her old friend, the same worried look on his face. His cheeks were red with exertion and his hair was windswept. She was surprised to notice that he was only wearing one shoe, but what truly shocked her was the blood.

He was covered in it. Soaking through his silk waistcoat and colouring his shirt, it didn’t appear to be his own. He held out his hands to her. They too were stained a deep red. 

“Marya, please. I need your help. We need your help. There’s been an accident.”

III

It was cold in Pierre’s house, and Marya wished she had had the presence of mind to bring a shawl. She mutely followed Pierre through the long, marble halls towards his study. The only sound was the clicking of her footsteps echoed off the walls. 

It was a grand place, certainly, with lavish deep-red furnishings, ornate chandeliers and bearskins. Somehow it had never felt like he truly lived there, his bumbling humility so at odds with the grandiose wealth clearly displayed in the mansion. Of course, he was the richest man in Moscow, but sometimes it was easy to forget that. 

She didn’t know what to expect, could barely bring herself to think of what could have caused her friend’s state. A deep dread overcame her. Had he been attacked? Where had all of the blood come from?

Entering his study, the first thing she noticed was the smell. There was the same odour of alcohol and cigar-smoke that always hung about Pierre, but it was cut with a biting copper tang. The table was overturned, papers scattered all over the ornate Persian carpet. The carpet itself was ruined by a grotesque, wine-red stain– blood, Marya suddenly realised. Her stomach turned at the sight.  
She was overpowered by the sound of her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears. For the first time, she wished that she had turned him away, that she was at home knitting by the fire, while Natasha sang to her. The thought calmed her, an anchor in the storm. 

A small, hoarse voice broke the shocked silence. 

“You bastard.”

It was coming from the corner of the room, in the shadows. She glanced over and saw Hélène, slumped against the wall. She was pale as a ghost. A large section of expensive silk had been ripped from the skirt of her dress and she was pressing it to the side of her head. It was soaked through with blood. 

She looked fragile, faint and very, very angry, glaring at her husband. Her gaze turned to Marya. 

“Marya, darling, would you mind calling the doctor?”

IV

The doctor arrived quickly, and got to work without any questions. He ordered Marya and Pierre out of the room and they stood in silence outside the door. 

Pierre seemed to be swaying slightly, with his hands clutching his face, drawing deep, shaky breaths. He was pale, hungover. Marya could only stare at him. He seemed so much like the dear, gentle friend she knew. But how could that man have done such a thing as this?

She couldn’t take the silence any longer. 

“What did you do?”

It seemed silly, she thought, to ask, as if he were a child who had stolen a sweet, when it was so obvious. Still, she wanted to hear him say it. 

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet hers. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just- you must understand. You know what she is,” he said. The tears in his eyes seemed to shine through the thick lenses of his spectacles. 

“What she is? She’s your wife.” 

His eyebrows furrowed together, and he looked so hurt that Marya had to remind herself that he was not the injured party in the situation. 

She wanted to speak again, to tell him it would be alright, but she couldn’t find the words. 

“You know what the worst part is?” Pierre asked quietly. “She was right. I am a pathetic nothing. There’s a war going on and I am too much of a coward to fight. I can barely shoot a gun straight enough to defend what’s left of my honour.”

Marya opened her mouth to ask him what he meant. She had a sinking feeling that the situation was even more complicated than it had seemed. Of course, she knew Hélène, knew how she liked to flaunt her sinfully revealing dresses. The rumours were everywhere. It seemed all of Moscow had nothing better to do than talk about her many lovers, each more shocking than the last– from the Tsar himself to her own brother. Marya knew better than to believe it, obviously, but she couldn’t deny that there was something about her. Perhaps it was just the power of a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress, but she always seemed to have a magical hold on everyone. 

Still, whatever her thoughts on the Princess, she had seen what Pierre had done to her. She had no doubt in her mind that there was nothing she could have done to deserve that. 

They stood in the hallway, silent except for the sound of his pacing footsteps. Eventually, the doctor came out of the study, blood-covered, and put them out of their misery. He spoke in a business-like manner, as if he were delivering a letter or fixing a leak. There was something oddly reassuring about it. 

“The wound was large but fairly shallow. She lost a lot of blood– to be expected with a head injury– but nothing life-threatening. I’ve given her something for the pain and now she will just need to rest.” 

Pierre’s eyes shone with tears. He went to enter the room, but Marya stopped him, sternly. 

“She might not want to see you. I’ll talk to her.”

The doctor looked slightly nervously at Pierre, as if expecting him to fight her, but he just nodded, mutely.

“I should warn you, she seemed confused earlier. She might not know what happened,” he said. 

Marya thanked him, and went into the study. 

V

Hélène was stretched out on the bed, eyes closed and head wrapped in bandages. Her hair was down, spread in a crown of dark curls. She was still wearing her torn dress, and her pearls. It looked as though she was sleeping, so Marya quietly sat next to the bed. Slowly, Hélène blinked open her eyes.

“Tolya?”

Of course, she wanted her brother. Marya wasn’t surprised Pierre hadn’t told him what had happened. She couldn’t imagine he would react terribly well. 

“He isn’t here yet. How are you feeling?” she said, soft and quiet, so unlike normal. 

Hélène gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been better.” She paused, furrowing her brow in confusion. “Why are you here?”

Marya reminded herself not to let Hélène’s bluntness offend her- the amount of morphine she had been given did not lend itself to good manners. 

“I wasn’t sure that you’d want to see Pierre.” At the name, Hélène let out a little sigh and her eyes crinkled in an exaggerated expression of disgust.

“It’s funny. He despises me, can barely bring himself to look at me half the time– and yet he would shoot a man over me. I will never understand men and their honour.” 

“He really shot someone? Who?” asked Marya, failing to hide her utter shock. 

“You didn’t know? I thought the news would have reached halfway to Siberia by now. He challenged Fedya. Won, too. And then we came home and, well, I suppose he was hoping he could get rid of two problems in one night.”

“He did this to you.” It was said quietly, a statement rather than a question. If Helene heard it, she did not react. 

She met her eyes for a second, then looked away. “My dress is ruined.” She glanced mournfully at the bloodstained fabric. “I never did look as good in red as you.”

Marya felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “You look good in anything.”

“Marya Dimityevna, when did you get so charming?” 

Hélène’s usual flirty nature seemed to have returned, which relieved Marya. Clearly the blow hadn’t changed her at all. Yet there was a sadness to her that she had not seen before. Perhaps she had been too blinded by her own dislike to notice it. 

“How is Pierre?” asked Hélène, shifting over in bed so that Marya could not see her face. She didn’t know what to say, hesitating as the silence grew between them.

“He feels terribly guilty.”

Hélène laughed at this, a short, bitter bark that immediately made her wince in pain. She turned back to Marya and opened her mouth as if to speak, and then paused in thought. 

“Maybe I should get a dog,” she said. Marya, confused by the change in subject, raised one eyebrow in a silent question. 

“I always wanted one of those dogs with the terribly long faces. You know, that look like they’re thinking really hard. I’m sure it would be better company than that old man. Nicer to look at, too. I would comb its fur and let it sleep at the end of my bed. And I would call it-” here, she paused, and when she continued had a distinctly self-satisfied look on her face. “Masha.”

Marya laughed, and protested that she did not look like a dog. 

“I never said I would name it after you. There are plenty of Marys in Moscow, you know.” She yawned, the sedatives starting to take effect. “Even if you are my favourite.”

Hélène Kuragina never spoke out of turn; every word had a meaning and a purpose, as if she was reading from a carefully crafted script. But this was different, and there was something so genuine in the way she said it that it made Marya’s chest tighten. She knew that the drugged-up woman did not know what she was saying, that it wasn’t really her. Or maybe this was the real Hélène, beneath all of the marble and silk. She felt sad that in the morning they would probably go back to antagonising or avoiding each other. 

“I should let you get some rest,” she said, standing up to leave. Hélène caught her hand, gripping it with slender fingers. 

“I know that you don’t like me, or respect me, but I always thought that, maybe, if things were different, we could have been something to each other. And I just- I don’t know. It would have been nice.” For once, her unfeeling façade was gone, and Marya could see the vulnerability and desperation in her eyes. 

She leant over, and kissed her gently on her bandaged forehead. 

“I do like you, Hélène,” she whispered, and she left the room, smiling

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any thoughts/ friendly comments/ people willing to bond over a shared love of Amber Gray much appreciated.  
> :)


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